Runaway
by Embracing Inescapable Truth
Summary: Stitch never stays in one place for too long. Why? Does he simply love the adventure, or is there something else which keeps him running? Maggie and Stitch, non-romantic.


This is a one-parter set the night of Selena's death at the end of S21 E48 ("To Love You So"). During the previous episode ("Seize The Day") Stitch spoke angrily to a man who intervened in someone else's suicide attempt, a reaction which was never really explained on the programme given Stitch's sudden departure in the following episode. This fic is simply my take on what might have caused him to behave like this, as I thought he was a really interesting character who was never properly explored. Song is P!nk's "Runaway".

**Warning:** Some strong language and mention of suicide.

**Runaway**

_I might have nowhere left to go  
But I know that I cannot go home  
These words are strapped inside my head  
Tell me to run before I'm dead  
Chase the rainbows in my mind  
And I will try to stay alive  
Maybe the world will know one day  
Why won't you help me run away?_

"Theodore! Theodore you idiot, wait up!" A girl picked up the hem of her ankle length skirt, half laughing, half running along a pebbled beach. The strong coastal wind caused her hair to fan behind her, sparkling in the glistening sun as she continued her pursuit. "Slow dowwwwn!" she shouted again, although she was so out of breath the words were instantly drowned by the sound of crashing waves breaking against the rocks.

Slowing down to a jog as instructed, before stopping altogether, a seventeen-year-old boy turned to face his companion. As he did so, a gust of wind caught his shoulder length hair and blew it away from his face revealing a contented grin spread across chiselled and markedly handsome features. His greyish brown eyes sparkled with energy that was reflected in the crashing waves, and the swash which washed up just short of his feet.

He allowed himself to smirk slightly as the girl followed him along the pebbled beach, struggling in the combined efforts of not treading on her skirt, coupled with preventing it from blowing into her face (not that he'd have particularly minded if it did). "Hurry up then!" he chided, taking slow and teasing steps backwards while Sally Mitchen attempted to keep up with him. "Places to go, people to see!"

"Oh yeah?" she asked, finally catching up to him and grabbing hold of his wrists to prevent him from retreating any further. After taking a moment to regain her breath, she glanced up at him flirtatiously. "And who could possibly be more interesting than me?" Though she spoke jokingly there was a steeling glint in her eye, which said quite clearly 'and an incorrect answer at this stage _will_ cost you all of your points'.

Theodore studied her for a moment, considering how to reply, and ensure that he was able to walk away from the conversation with all body parts firmly attached. Although perhaps not everybody could see it, she was truly beautiful. Her dirty blonde hair whipped around her delicate features: her small nose on which a pair of square glasses were perched; cheeks still rosy red from the exertion of the beach run; the most gorgeous dimples when she smiled. "Nobody," he answered truthfully.

And then she did smile, letting go of his wrists and looking up into his face, eyes shining with happiness. "Correct answer," she whispered, and despite the crashing waves and the howling wind her voice was as clear as day to him. "I love you, you know that right?"

"I love you too." Leaning down, he pressed his lips to hers, and as they stood embracing each other on the shore, neither noticed as a wave crashed around their feet, drenching their socks and shoes.

* * *

Banging his shot glass down on the bar and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Stitch reclined backwards luxuriously on the barstool, as far as he could without actually toppling off. It was a mark of the years of skill that he managed to wink cheekily at the blonde sitting on the other side of the bar, while simultaneously beckoning the equally sexy barmaid in order to acquire a further line of shots. Each gave him a thoroughly withering look before returning to their respective tasks. Ah well, he shrugged, resettling himself in his seat, can't blame a bloke for trying.

The door to the pub opened and closed, causing a gust of wind, not to mention a splattering of rain, to enter. Ignoring this fact, Stitch busied himself with scanning the bar for any further 'talent', to which he was met with a resounding zero. Sheesh, what was it with this damn city? All he wanted was a quick shag, then he'd be gone, never to return. Looked like he'd have to settle for the brunette in the corner. Well, she wasn't exactly ugly or anything, he just had the vague impression she'd swing for him if he tried anything on. Well defined muscles on her bare forearms paid tribute to the fact she was on the more masculine end of fit.

Hey, at least she was a challenge. And stamina was always a plus.

It was only as he was getting to his feet to approach his latest victim that a familiar voice jarred him back to his senses, and he turned in surprise to face the woman now sitting beside him. Quickly regaining his oh-so-cool composure, he glanced her up and down, before making a 'seductive' growling noise in the back of his throat. "Maggie darling, you couldn't bare to say goodbye without seeing me one last time?"

If only looks could kill.

* * *

The late evening sun was casting an orangey glow through the slight crack between two deep red curtains, bathing a pair of teenagers in light. One of them – the girl – was leaning back against four or five pillows. Although a smile had momentarily broken across her face in response to her companion's latest comment, her features were drawn. Where once she had been curvy and healthy her skin sagged, and her sallow skin was pale and clammy, her eyes sunken. Perched beside her on the side of the bed was a boy of a similar age, a worried expression clearly visible in his eyes despite the smile crinkling his features.

"And, of course, I wouldn't want you to fall behind on your studies," Theo teased gently, "So I made an extra effort to go around all your classes yesterday and pick up work." With a somewhat sly grin he reached into the plastic bag by his side, and pulled out a pile of text books, dropping them heavily onto the desk beside Sally. "We need top marks to make it into med school, you know!"

The laughter fleetingly slipped from Sally's face, although before Theo noticed she had replaced it with a smile. However, the smile did not quite reach her eyes, where a lingering sadness lay. She sighed and closed her eyes completely, allowing his nervous conversation to wash over her, without really listening at all. To be a doctor. The shared dream that had originally brought them together. The dream she was never going to achieve.

Suddenly she could no longer bare the idle conversation and her eyes flew open. Using all her effort, she pushed up against the mattress so she was sat up properly. "Theodore," she said quietly, cutting across his blabbering about what she'd missed in biology last week. "Theodore, the hospital. I got my results yesterday."

Relief flooded the boy's face, to be replaced a moment later by apprehension. He hadn't wanted to bring the subject up personally, yet had been anxious to know what was wrong with Sally. Ever since the flu like symptoms had taken over her a few weeks ago he'd been concerned, especially when they had failed to disappear over the following days. This had cumulated in Sally's GP eventually sending her to the hospital for some tests, and the pair had been anxiously awaiting her results since then.

Theo shifted his position on the side of her bed so he was no longer facing her, but staring at the opposite wall. He didn't want her to see the twisted expression of unease and fear across his face. "You're going to be OK then?" he asked, faking confidence in his voice. "They said you were going to be OK, right?"

"Just listen to me Theodore," she said quietly, talking hold of his hand and forcing him to face her. As he looked into her eyes he saw an air of sadness he'd never seen within them before and his stomach twisted in an uncomfortable knot. "Theodore, I've got cancer. Leukaemia. They say I have two months, maybe less."

And then his whole world came crashing down, and nothing made sense anymore.

* * *

A few minutes later Stitch had decided to give up on the brunette, who had, most unfortunately, just been joined by a male who looked at least twice Stitch's own size and bodyweight. He'd settled for purchasing the rather dishevelled looking Maggie a large red wine. Hey, you never did know; he might get lucky yet.

Bored of the pleasantries which had thus far filled their conversation, Stitch cut across Maggie, who was in mid-flow about some boring case she'd just dealt with. "Anyway, aren't you off mourning Selena, or whatever her face is?" If the look he'd received from the blonde at the other end of the bar had been cold, this one screamed mass-murder. He instantly shut up, choosing instead to take a couple of large gulps from the frothing beer sat in front of him.

Remaining composed, Maggie rested her elbow on the bar, raising a thoroughly disgusted eyebrow. "Aren't you off running away because you're upset about 'whatever her face' and are too afraid to admit it?" she shot back, taking a sip from her own glass.

Stitch nearly choked. After coughing once or twice he thumped the beer glass back on the bar and continued to splutter, attempting to clear the beer from his airways. Maggie, for her part, merely gave a smirk to rival one of Stitch's own, and watched him struggle to cough up the drink. Just as he'd finally managed to take a couple of gulping breaths and was about to speak, she cut across him. "Touched a nerve?"

Stitch stared at the woman before him, torn between annoyance at his own obvious display of shock, and annoyance at the general fact she was still breathing. He also found himself wondering what on earth had possessed him to buy her a (albeit the cheapest he could manage) drink. "You wouldn't have any idea," he replied, uncharacteristically venomously.

With a small shrug, Maggie replied casually, "No, probably not." And then came the words Stitch had, over the years, come to dread. "You could tell me about it."

* * *

Seconds seeped into minutes, minutes seeped into hours, and hours into days. Time was a concept Theo had never really considered, but suddenly it meant _everything_. Each passing second as the clock ticked on menacingly represented one less second with Sally. One less second worth living. Where once he had wished the time by so that he and Sally could grow up and start a life together, he now desperately clung to every moment remaining, wishing that each moment would last an eternity.

He could even _see_ the time, now. He could see each hour aging her face by days, as she struggled to cling onto what was left of her life. The cancer was advanced now. She'd become anaemic only four days after her last blood transfusion, and most her time was now spent in a hospital bed. Today, today was one of the few days at home. She always seemed to possess that little more life at home, almost as though the familiar surroundings gave her the will to fight.

"Theodore," her voice was raspy, her throat constantly dry. She squeezed his hand gently, alerting him to her. Although he hadn't left her bedside for hours, she had slept solid for the majority of the day and Theo hadn't realised that she'd woken up.

Turning to face her now, he placed a concerned hand to her forehead, checking her temperature. He didn't really know what temperature to expect, but he had to do _something_. How he wished he was a doctor already, then he'd know how to fight the cancer that had been labelled as incurable. He'd know how to fight what the other doctors had given up on. "What is it Sallz? Do you need something? Anything?"

Despite all else, a small smile flickered across Sally's face at Theo's willingness and help. All she had to do was say 'jump' and he'd ask her how high. He'd do anything for her, she knew that. In some ways that made what she was about to do one hundred times harder, yet in others it made it so much easier. "Yeah, yeah I do actually," she replied slowly, pausing between every couple of words to shakily draw breath. "I need you to go home, have a shower, get changed and have a break."

Shaking his head, Theo instantly refused. Sally smirked - typical, the one time she actually needed him to do something! "No," he replied stubbornly. "No, I need to stay here with you! I'm fine."

Sally laughed, the dryness of her throat making the sound scratchy, yet genuine. "You stink!" she lied, her eyes twinkling slightly. If truth be told she found his smell comforting. Even when she was drifting in and out of sleep, the awareness that he was by her side made everything so much easier. "Go home Theodore, I'll be waiting here. It's not like I can go anywhere." He hesitated, and seizing on this she pulled her hand from his own. "Go," she urged. "Go on!"

With a slightly resigned smile, Theo nodded. "Okay, but I'll be back in an hour, tops," he promised solemnly, standing slightly and leaning forwards for a kiss. As he did so, Sally moved surprisingly quickly, not only reciprocating his gesture but also slipping a piece of paper into his back pocket.

"Don't read it yet," she instructed, in reply to his questioning glance. "You can read it tonight, while I'm sleeping."

Still looking slightly confused, Theo shrugged and placed his hand into his back pocket, on top of the note. It felt perfectly normal; it was just a slip of paper. Nothing more. "Okay," he agreed cautiously, wondering what she could have to say to him that she couldn't say to his face.

"Go on then, I'm counting," Sally grinned at him, giving him a small nudge in the back to get him off her bed. "An hour," she said, pointing at the clock by her window for emphasis. "I'm counting!"

Chuckling slightly, Theo turned to go, blowing one last kiss to Sally before he left the room, shutting the door softly behind him. An eerie silence descended, and Sally sighed, sinking slightly more deeply into her pillow, savouring the memory of his smell, his gentle touch on her body.

A steely resolve settled in her eyes, and for a moment her face seemed to gain more life, despite the fact that life was the very thing she was lacking. Using all her energy she sat up and pulled open the top drawer of her bedside cabinet, revealing two full bottles of painkillers. "Bye, Theo," she whispered softly, her knuckles whitening on the handle of the drawer.

* * *

Stubbornness was perhaps one of the few traits that the two doctors shared in equal measure, and it was in a particularly strong measure at that. So it was, that ten minutes on Stitch was continuing to refuse point-blank to answer Maggie's continued queries, and yet she continued to question him, probing him as though he was some bloody head case. He rolled his eyes, shutting her voice out completely now. Bloody women. They were only good for one thing, and that one thing didn't involve opening their gobs. Well, actually...

Stitch was most disgusted that the blonde at the other end of the bar had left, only to be replaced by some rather weedy looking women, none of whom even came close to his minimum standard. Perhaps together they might just about scrape the grade, but then he was never going to say no to a threesome, be it with biddery old Grannies. Ew, okay, maybe he'd say no to that. Suddenly a jab in the ribs, accompanied by an annoyed hiss of "Stitch!" caused him to snap out of his trance rather swiftly. Perhaps that wasn't a bad thing, Stitch certainly wasn't impressed with where his own thoughts were leading him. Instead, he looked at Maggie, cocking his head slightly. "Mmm?" he growled in response, glancing her up and down in a suggestive way.

"Oh for the love of–" Maggie replied, deeply tempted to thump him. "Would you get over yourself?"

"Wouldn't you rather get over me?" Stitch replied, a half smile cocking his arrogant features, as he leant slightly closer to Maggie.

Maggie's only response was to roll her eyes, shifting on her stool so that she was sat as far away from Stitch as possible. "To be quite frank, Theodore, I can think of about a million things I'd rather do."

And something changed. Stitch sat up abruptly, the smirk instantly wiped from his features. His body language became hard and abrupt, and suddenly it was Maggie leaning closer to him, a concerned expression playing on her face. "Stitch?" she questioned. "Stitch, are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Stitch replied brusquely, turning his head away from Maggie. "Just don't call me that. It's Stitch, okay?"

With a small shrug, Maggie agreed. "Okay, sure, _Stitch_." A sudden memory was jogged in Maggie's mind, of around a week ago. "Hey, Stitch – why did you call me last week? You called yourself Theo then."

"Theo's okay." Stitch shrugged, before adding hurriedly, "But I prefer Stitch."

Perplexed, Maggie merely decided to agree. "Okay, sure. But why did you call."

"Want another drink?"

"You're avoiding the question!"

"You're being a stubborn b-"

"Just answer the bloody question!"

And finally Stitch turned to face Maggie properly, and an expression mingling between anger and agony was contorting his features. "Because people should be allowed to choose when they want to die," he spat venomously, his eyes hard, cold, angry yet scared. "It's their choice."

* * *

He couldn't wait. He'd decided that before he'd even left the room. A small feeling of guilt twisted in his stomach at the thought of going against her wishes, especially now, especially when she could do so little about it, other than trust him completely and absolutely. But then he reminded himself it couldn't be so important anyway. If it was so important she'd have said whatever it was to his face. And besides, this was coming from the girl who knew him better than anybody in the entire world; if she expected him to wait to read whatever it was, she truly was going crazy.

Internal struggle won, Theo dug his hand deep into his jeans pocket and pulled out the note. Settling down onto his bed, which had been empty now for eight consecutive nights, he began to read.

_Theodore,_

_Firstly, let me say one thing: I'm sorry. Sorry for being a coward. Sorry for not being able to tell you. Sorry for leaving you alone in this shit hole of a world. Sorry. But please understand, I did what I had to do._

_Maybe you'll never understand. Maybe you'll always be angry with me. I get that. But please know that I never meant to hurt you. You're the only thing that stopped me leaving weeks ago. With you around I knew I always had something to look forwards to, something to cling onto._

_But I'm scared, Theodore. I'm so scared. Not of dying, but of the helplessness. They've told me my hearing will be the last thing to go. Can you imagine that, Theodore? Lying there, slipping in and out of consciousness, and hearing what the people around you are saying, but not being able to respond, or even acknowledge them? So I need to go, now. Before it comes to that. I need to be able to make this final choice. Whatever you do, don't try to stop me. By the time you read this I'll already be gone._

_Please, if you only remember one thing about me, remember that I love you. I will always love you, Theodore. You've made the most difficult days of my life so happy, and for that I am eternally grateful. Know above all else that I died happily. I died in the way I wanted to, on my terms, with the knowledge that somebody wonderful loves me._

_Love, always,_

_Sally_

It was strange. He thought he ought to have been crying. Surely the paper should have been soaked in his salty tears, the ink running freely and each word indistinguishable from the next. He ought to be broken, shattered, unable to breathe for the wracking sobs that tore through his body.

And yet the overwhelming emotion was not devastation, but relief. It was over. She was happy now. Happy. What was it they'd told him as a child, when his grandmother had died? She'd gone to a better place. So had Sally, on her terms, in her way, in her time. And the grief would come, oh he knew the grief would come. Even now he expected to feel his heart breaking in two, as one half left this world without him. Yet for one short minute, he was able to cling to relief for the one - the only - person that mattered.

A phone vibrated in his jeans pocket, and numbly he pulled it out, already aware of the devastating message which he was about to receive. Perhaps hearing it said out loud, perhaps that would be the breaking point which had so far eluded him.

Without speaking, he flipped open his phone and waited for the voice on the other end of the line to shatter everything he'd ever hoped and believed in. To deliver the news which would end his life. Because being without her, that wasn't a life. "Theo?" The urgency in the voice surprised him into a reply greeting. "Theo, it's Dave, Sally's brother. Theo, she's ODed. We're taking her into the hospital now. It doesn't look good, you might want to be there." A beeping indicated the end of the conversation, as the conversation was terminated from the other end of the line.

Then he cried. He cried, and he cried for the injustice, and he cried for Sally.

* * *

Somewhat taken aback by this sudden explosion of emotion, Maggie blinked, but remained composed. She placed down her now empty wine glass cautiously, considering her next words carefully. Diplomacy. Reason. Tact. "I suppose that's one opinion, but-"

A derisive snort issued from Stitch, and in contrast to Maggie's calculated action, he slammed his empty beer glass down with such force a crack ran up the side. "It's the only fucking opinion that matters Maggie, don't you see? What is life if we can't make choices? Can it be called a life, if the one final choice that somebody tries to make in their life is snatched away from them?" A hush seemed to have descended upon the bustling pub, but neither paid any heed to the attention they were drawing.

Perhaps diplomacy wasn't the most intelligent idea after all, Maggie concluded. "Theodore," she tried placating him gently, placing a hand on his arm, only to have it thrown off. "What's wrong? What's happened?"

"I told," he replied, through gritted teeth. "I told you not to call me that, that name. You've got no right to call me that!" Beads of sweat were glistening on his forehead, and his knuckles were white as they gripped the wooden bar. His breathing was shallow, forced, and controlled to such an extent that it clearly wasn't controlled at all.

Uncertainty finally setting in, Maggie reached forwards again and placed her hand on Stitch's arm. This time, he allowed it to lie, although the grip he was exerting upon the bar did not weaken, and his breathing did now slow to a steadier pace. "Okay. Stitch. Theo. Whatever. But why?"

A softness spread over Stitch's features, a softness which rendered him quite unrecognisable to the man he'd been moments before. The tense (and, Maggie couldn't help but notice however inappropriate, undeniably well-defined) muscles relaxed somewhat. "Because of her." His voice was barely audible above the chatter which had once again broken out through the pub. "Of course it's because of her."

Cocking her head to one side, Maggie gestured to the rather startled looking bartender for another round of drinks, before returning her attention to Stitch. "Because of who?" she asked, curiously.

"Her. But then, it's always been about her."

* * *

The scene wasn't unlike that of a few days ago. The glow of sunset was once again seeping the small crack in the curtains, however instead of being orange it was a deep, blood red. Two teenagers were perched on a bed, one under the covers and the other anxiously by her side. Yet this was no bedroom as before; the hospital room was white and sterile. Impersonal. Cold. The pair of teenagers – one supporting the other into a sitting position – were both even gaunter than previously. The girl was ghostly white, transparent almost. The boy was the kind of grey colour associated with severe lack of sleep and worry.

Theo gently lifted a hand, and made the motion as though to tuck a stray strand of hair behind his companion's ear, yet there was no hair to stray. Tears were trickling down his face as he cradled her, rocking her gently, speaking soothing words. "I understand. Sally, it's okay, I understand. I'm not angry. I could never be angry with you."

Bony fingers tried to clutch onto the back of his shirt, yet she wasn't able to establish a grip on the material. A choking sob escaped her parched lips, and she buried her face into his chest, his warm, comforting chest. It wasn't supposed to be like this. It wasn't supposed to end like this. Each breath took effort. Each word was laboured. "I'm - sorry," she stuttered again, each word between a different breath. "I - was scared… I'm so - scared."

Gently, he lifted her face away from his chest and cupped it in his hands. There were deep crevices in her cheeks, and her bones were protruding through the clammy skin. Although his voice was steady, the tears continued to flow down his face, increasing in their ferocity. "Don't be sorry, Sallz. You're the bravest, kindest person I know. Never ever be sorry."

They were both crying now, and their tears mingled on his shirt as she buried her face into his chest once again, searching solace. "Theodore, please Theodore," she choked between sobs, her breaths becoming more and more laboured. "I - wanted to - to die before. Before - it hurt. Please Theodore - let - me - die. I need – I can't – I have to -" Gently he caressed her back, as the sobs once again wracked her body. He held her close, trying to take her cancer for himself. Trying to die for her. He'd do anything for her.

And then gradually her sobbing stopped, and her shoulders became limp. Her body became heavy in his arms, yet he didn't lay her down. He cradled her gaunt frame, holding it to him, and his salty tears fell onto her bald head, splashing as they made contact with the skin. She wasn't gone yet. He knew that. It wasn't going to be quick or easy. It was going to be painful, and hard, and oh so hard.

He clutched to her, hoping and praying that she could die now. That she could slip away in peace and be happy. Yet the regular and rhythmical beeps of the heart monitor continued, and he could do nothing. Nothing but close his eyes in anger and anguish, and cry, as she slipped in and out of sleep.

* * *

"It was two or three days after that, when she finally–" His voice broke, unable to complete the sentence. Instead he took a deep breath, and his face hardened. "But it shouldn't have been like that. She shouldn't have had to suffer like that. I can't… I don't think of it must have been like for her during those last days. She didn't deserve that. Nobody deserves that. She made her choice, and that choice should have been respected, not disregarded." The last words were almost spat.

Where Maggie's eyes had been resting determinedly upon a groove in the bar until this point, she now looked up and made eye contact. "I'm sorry." The words were simple, yet accepting. And maybe that's all he needed: acceptance. Or maybe that's what he had needed, in the distant past. Perhaps now, it was too late for even that.

With a gulp, Stitch downed the remainder of his pint, slapping his lips and banging the glass back down on the bar. "So there you have it," he said, with an offhand kind of shrug. "I don't hang around places because I get attached. I've been here too long already." The mood had dramatically changed, and Stitch's word left no doubt that, as far as he was concerned, it was conversation closed.

There was a moment's pause while the buzzing of chatter continued on either side, but both Maggie and Stitch appeared lost in their own thoughts. Then he broke the silence and made a movement to grab his coat from beneath the bar. "I guess I won't be seeing you."

"There are people who can help, you know," Maggie told him quietly, glancing up and searching his eyes for some sort of indication to his feelings. They remained as blank as ever, shutting out anything that could possibly hurt him, refusing to give anything away. At least now she knew why.

He got to his feet brusquely, pushing the barstool backwards. Though the alcohol was heavy on his breath his mind was as clear as if he were completely sober. "I'm not going to see a fucking shrink Maggie."

She shrugged, brushing a stray hair from her eyes. "Then let me help. I can help, you know."

He surveyed her for a moment, considering. He'd already told her more than he'd ever told anybody, let her further into his thoughts, his emotions, than anybody but Sally had ever been. If the books and films were to be believed he was supposed to feel like a huge weight had been lifted from his chest. But he didn't. All he felt was cold and empty, and hell, he didn't like it. He didn't like to feel.

Stitch turned away. Whether to hide his face – now contorted with misery – or just to get away from Maggie, even he did not know. He didn't care. Right now all he needed was to hide from his feelings, hide away forever. To not care anymore. He started to leave.

"Theodore." It was, perhaps, the one word that could have stopped him. _She_ was the only person who had ever called him Theodore, to everybody else the name had been shortened to Theo, but she'd never believed in shortening names. He didn't turn around, he didn't know if he could face looking Maggie in the eye, but he stopped, and she knew he was listening. "You can't run away forever, you know."

Now he turned to face her, and he zipped up his jacket. Perhaps it was some sort of weird symbolic gesture, to protect himself against any emotion. Maybe he was just cold. "Watch me," he replied, his lip curling. "I'm well practised." And this time when he turned away, he left the pub, hood braced against the cold wind and rain. As he walked down the empty street he reached into his pocket and extracted Maggie's phone number. Ripping it into tiny pieces, he dropped them carelessly onto the street, where they floated into a nearby puddle.

* * *

Rain was splattering against the window, but neither of the two nineteen-year-olds noticed, as they each rolled onto their backs, panting heavily and pulling the single hotel bed sheet further up their bodies to keep the brittle cold away from their naked flesh. A coldness that was quite separate to the bitter chill of the room had settled in the pit of the boy's stomach. He didn't even know her name.

"What did you say you were called?"

"I didn't. Jessica. What about you?"

"Stitch."

Stitch closed his eyes and a familiar face swam before his eyes. A single tear leaked down his cheek, landing heavily on the soft, white pillow.

_I was just trying to be myself  
You go your way I'll meet you in hell  
All these secrets that I shouldn't tell I've got to run away  
_

_This life makes no sense to me  
It don't make no sense to me  
It don't make any sense to me  
Life don't make any sense to me_


End file.
